


no map to the road of you

by Anonymous



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eames realizes that he's in love. During sex.





	no map to the road of you

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works.
> 
> For the [kink meme prompt](https://inception-kink.livejournal.com/18462.html?thread=41581598#t41581598): "5 sex positions Eames found incredibly hot with Arthur, and 1 wherein he realized he's in love."

**1.**  
Granted, he's not as uptight as a lot of people assume, but Arthur does pride himself on his plans and keeping control of any given situation, so Eames is a little startled at their current circumstances. The enthusiastic kissing wasn't surprising after the appraising looks, though a little sloppier and more desperate than Eames might have predicted. And if it's a little incongruent with Arthur's normally reserved exterior or a little eager, he won't complain. In fact, Eames is not truly surprised until Arthur breaks off midway through a sloppy kiss—while both are still standing fully-clothed in the middle of the hotel room—and sinks to his knees purposefully. For all Eames' experience, it's still the single most sexy thing he has ever seen. He can't help but stand there dumbfounded for a long moment, too aware of his hard-on and suddenly dry mouth.

After an awkward beat, Arthur settles his hands uncertainly on his own knees. He tilts his face up to meet Eames' downturned eyes, "It's okay if I..?"

"Christ, Arthur. Of course!" It probably says something about Arthur that he asks permission only after he's at eye-level with Eames' cock. And it probably equally telling that Eames' voice is low and hoarse with want already.

A smirk twitches along the serious line of Arthur's mouth, indicating that he's well aware of these facts. Eames has always admired the way emotions played out so subtly through Arthur's body and face: humor in the unexpected appearance of crow's feet, a lone nervous twitch in the otherwise controlled hands, the hint of a quiet smile in the curl of lips. Truly—speaking purely aesthetically—there's a lot to appreciate about Arthur indeed.

No longer uncertain, Arthur runs his hands up Eames' thighs confidently until his fingers hook into the waist of his slacks. Without trying to make it sexy, Arthur undoes the belt buckle deftly. The gentle metallic clink works like a Pavlovian bell, because Eames is pressed hard against his trousers. Arthur notices, ever observant, and runs the pad of one thumb along Eames' erection firmly before undoing the zipper and then shoves trousers and all to mid-thigh.

Any self-consciousness has faded from Arthur as if it were never there, because he confidently wraps a hand around the base of Eames' dick. "Don't fall over on me when you come," is all Arthur says in warning before taking the whole thing in his mouth, cheeks hollowed out and eyes intent.

Eames nearly loses it right then, but manages to hang on with inane thoughts buzzing through his brain:  _'Like I needed any more aesthetic details to appreciate, Arthur'_  and  _Jesus Christ, anyone who's ever called him uptight has never seen him like this._

 

**2.**  
From behind him, Arthur's thumb flicks the braces off Eames' shoulders, one then then other. They land lightly against the sides of his knees. He can't see much, but that's to be expected with Arthur's other hand at the back of his head, holding him face down to the desk. It's actually a scenario that would amuse him greatly, if he weren't so ridiculously turned on. Arthur never really was one for subtlety and Eames can't help but needle him a bit for it. He says, "So that paperwork you wanted to discuss after hours, Arthur, am I to take it that it's pure fabrication?"

"Interesting choice of words, Mr. Eames," Arthur responds in that dry tone that indicates his particular sense of humor. It's easy to miss, but well worth learning. To illustrate his point, Arthur presses against Eames' backside, specifically pushing insistently through layers of clothing at Eames' ass. The pressure is exquisite, a mixture of physical sensation and, more importantly, anticipation.

What had he said anyway? Ah, 'take it.' Only Arthur and his love for detail would find the atrocious pun. "Whatever you like, Arthur. I'm very versatile."

"That's good to know." Arthur leans forward even further, pinning him against the desk more firmly, while he hums appreciatively. Clever hands begin freeing his shirt and undoing the buttons of his trousers. Another tug has his shirt rucked up, trousers again pushed down his legs. It's only the second time they're having sex—after the deeply satisfying session of mutual fellatio—but Eames is beginning to wonder if every encounter is going to find him with his pants and shirt merely shoved out of the way and Arthur still in full dress.

The thought is somewhat unsettling.

"Arthur, am I ever going to get the chance to see you without those lovely suits and sweaters?"

"One day," Arthur promises. He bites at the nape of Eames' neck thoughtfully before adding, "But not today." Then there's the sound of Arthur unzipping himself. Eames can't help but laugh.

_Maybe next time, then._

 

**3.**  
"This time, Arthur, I think we need to have less clothing. What do you say?"

Arthur nods shortly in agreement, apparently unwilling to remove his mouth from licking along the underside of Eames' jaw. One of Eames'—admittedly many—weaknesses is attention to his neck so he savors each scrape of tongue against stubble and each soothing lick to the sensitive bare skin at shoulder and ear. As always with Arthur, his arousal has spiked too quickly, driving his breathing into embarrassing gasps. And when Arthur switches to drag teeth firmly along the bones protruding under skin and muscle at his jaw, he's so lost that he would agree to anything Arthur said—even if it was to deprive him of his  _promised_  show of naked Arthur.

He starts in on stripping Arthur of his clothing before the train of thought can desert him and as if Arthur might revoke permission at any moment. Today's sartorial fare consists of a wine-colored jumper, collared shirt, belt, and trousers. For which Eames is thankful, since the nerves of his fingers are uncharacteristically clumsy in their rush—another effect only Arthur seems to have on him. At least he doesn't have to work through two sets of buttons, as he would have had Arthur chosen a three piece today. He pulls the jumper up and over Arthur's head, leaving his dark hair all akimbo in its wake.

Unexpectedly, Eames is floored. Even on his knees, he hasn't yet gotten to see Arthur anything less than presentably gorgeous. Now, he already looks miles more debauched before they've even come close to the bed.

Obviously, Arthur has no interest in his reverie: "The fuck are you stopping for, Eames?"

"Apologies, Arthur." He offers a kiss, conveniently covering any other irritated words, and starts in on the shirt. "I was admiring the view. Really, I can't be blamed."

Arthur snorts, which is a little too close to self-derision for Eames' taste, but not a topic for the moment. "Bed?"

"Perhaps on your hands and knees. I think I should get the opportunity to truly appreciate you this time."

With a nod he moves out from under Eames' hands. On the way to the hotel bed, Arthur finishes off his clothing—the half-hanging shirt, trousers, shoes, and socks. It's quick, efficient, and the clothes are left where they drop. Before Eames has even moved a step, he's on the bed on all fours and looking back expectantly.

_Mercy, but I'm fucking lucky._

"Get the fuck over here, Eames."

"Yes, sir."

 

**4.**  
Yet another long item on the list of 'things to appreciate about Arthur' is that the man can be very flexible. Perhaps not as much in metaphor as sexual positions, but Eames isn't one to criticize. Particularly since Arthur's legs are flung over his shoulders, knees pinned on either side of Arthur's ears, and he's  _still_  ordering Eames about like he owns the place.

Eames is entirely sure that Arthur has given him a sexual complex. It'll be incredibly difficult to explain to the next lucky man or woman that they really have to be more commanding in bed:  _I've been slowly trained to like the orders, you see_ , he'd have to say.

The thought sets his teeth on edge. Maybe it's because he's fucking  _buried_  in Arthur's ass when the idea crosses his mind. Or maybe it's because they have a comfortable arrangement. They fuck and it's fantastic, sure-thing sex. With a very limber, brilliant Arthur. He'd have to be mad to want to be thinking about moving on from that for random one night stands again, right?

"For fuck's sake, Eames. You think too goddamn much. If you're fucking me, keep your mind on the task, will you?"

Allowing a smirk, he uses his weight and leverage to come down hard on the next thrust, which predictably causes Arthur to cut off any possible further complaints with a moaned, "Fuck yes, like that. I liked that."

Eames does it again and again, maneuvering his hips just so. But his jaw is set painfully—like he didn't fucking  _know_  how Arthur likes it or something. He knows Arthur likes it hard, he knows the angles he likes best, and he knows all Arthur's tells for when he's feeling horny. Christ, they've been fucking for long enough that he  _should_  know by now. Maybe not fucking each other exclusively. And not with any set verbalized rules. But Eames knows Arthur from the hint of dimple in his cheeks to his fine arse to the bend of his knee. Fucking  _insulting_  to think he's—

"Eames," Arthur says, his words nothing more than a gasp of air. Eames knows this, too. It's the hint of a reprimand.

_A good boy to the end_ , Eames thinks with chagrin as he sets the thoughts aside. He places a sloppy kiss to Arthur's knee wordlessly in answer.

 

**5.**  
Arthur shrugs him off as soon as Eames starts kissing along the naked line of shoulder. It's a little baffling. After all, hadn't it been  _Arthur_  who suggested they share a room this time around to cut down on time spent in transit and costs?

Arthur pulls the towel at his waist tighter. He looks strangely vulnerable just out of the shower and obviously fumbling for words. "I'm tired tonight. I mean. We can, but."

Ah, well, disappointing, but nothing worth getting so flustered over. Eames tugs at Arthur's arm, gently so as not to set the plainly uncomfortable man off. "Arthur."

The gentle tone goes unnoticed.

"Look, I know it was my idea to share, but I couldn't exactly predict today being so  _shitty_ , alright? I can't think of sex when all I want to do is collapse because I spent the entire day fixing the mistakes some idiot shouldn't have made in the first place and sure as hell should have told me about so I didn't have to find them all myself."

Arthur's fuming, but not pulling away, so Eames keeps pulling the arm until he can sit on the hotel loveseat while reeling Arthur in further until he has Arthur perched on his lap. "You should know that I don't expect anything of you. Well, that's not quite right. I fully expect that you'll put out, going by past experience, but it doesn't have to be on my schedule, you know. It's fine. Sleeping is fine."

Arthur looks suspicious.

"Here, darling, turn around so your back is facing me."

The look Arthur gives him is even  _more_  suspicious.

"I feel like an idiot sitting in your lap. I'm getting up."

Eames presses firmly down on Arthur's shoulders to keep him in place. The involuntary moan it wrings from him is a bonus. Tentatively, Eames presses the span of his palms down again, using the tips of his fingers to dig into the muscles of shoulder and neck. The reward is fantastic: Arthur sinks back, completely docile against his chest. The weight is pleasant, familiar, and  _right_. He kneads more firmly with his hands, experimenting to see what noises he can elicit. It's not often he gives a massage, but it doesn't seem to be a difficult thing: press with the hand, knead with the knuckles, gentle jabs with the tips of the fingers, and smooth with the blade of the hand from time to time.

"Ugh, I take it all back," Arthur practically moans, "Do whatever the fuck you want so long as you keep doing that."

"Anything I like, hmm?" Eames laughs, completely pleased and incredulous. If he emphasizes the question with a hard press to a knot at the base of Arthur's neck, he can't be faulted for being only human.

" _God._  Christ, yes, whatever. Anything."

Eames decides to test Arthur's massage-induced concessions. He shifts Arthur so he's nearly leaning back completely. With his right hand, he smooths the warm skin of Arthur's shoulder and side. His left arm, wrapped around the lean torso, holds the now ragdoll-like Arthur steady. Venturing out from the smoothing gestures, he trails two fingers of his right hand further along the expanse of skin—face, neck, ribs, chest, stomach. At the towel's edge he pauses, expecting Arthur to protest, but when Arthur doesn't say anything—leaning back, eyes shut, and relaxed—Eames dips his hand below at Arthur's hip. The knot holding the towel together breaks and falls away. Interestingly, Arthur is half-erect against his own thigh.

"Hmm, beautiful, Arthur."

Only then does Arthur respond with a distinct scoffing noise. Still the self-derision, but carefully deflected, "I was serious before, Eames. I'm too tired to do anything tonight."

"Well, how about," Eames goes back to trailing his fingers over Arthur again soothingly. He avoids being too sexual about it, instead focusing on the curve of Arthur's knee and thigh. "How about I do the work and you enjoy yourself and relax?" He knows Arthur well enough to  _feel_  the doubt. "Let me show you, darling. Relax."

Using his entire hand, he now sweeps upwards on both of Arthur's things with deliberate pressure. He presses a kiss to the skin behind Arthur's ear. Arthur has apparently decided to trust him, because he hums in appreciation.

Not wanting to ruin the work he's done to earn a pliant Arthur in his arms, Eames pitches his voice low and dirty, "See, all I want you to do is lie there looking gorgeous and fuck my hand. I like to touch you, you know. I like the feel of your skin," he wraps a hand around Arthur, now fully hard, and is earns a low noise, "against my hand. You're fucking sexy as hell. I like having you any way you'll let me." He breaks off his own speech and nips gently a little at Arthur's ear to divert from the uncomfortable truths. Arthur squirms, which in turn wedges him further into the 'v' of Eames' legs and him better leverage as he starts working Arthur's cock in leisurely strokes. It's remarkably easy in this position, he can do it like he would himself. "I know you don't believe me when I say you're sexy or gorgeous or that I like to admire you. The first time—remember?—with you on your knees. Fucking hell, Arthur, I  _still_  think of it—of you looking up at me with your lips over my dick."

Something in this vein is doing it for Arthur. His breathing is going ragged and he's grinding down inadvertently in Eames' lap. Willing to please, Eames continues, "In that hotel room, you remember it, I know you do. You were so good for me on your knees. Didn't even have to ask, did I? But after, I couldn't wait to get my mouth on you, if you recall. Wanted to lick you everywhere, all along your lovely skin that you keep hidden under your oh-so-proper clothing. Wanted to suck you, tongue at your hole, everything. I've shown you since how I can be talented with my tongue, haven't I, Arthur—"

With a soft cry, Arthur comes over Eames' fist and the towel that's barely managing to still cling to his hips. "Eames..."

"Hush, you'll ruin my hard work. Hop into the bed, I'll be along shortly."

Miraculously, Arthur does without another word. A rare creature, this compliant Arthur.

By the time Eames gets there, Arthur is asleep and his own hard on has subsided—both things expected.

_It's not as if I won't keep for another time._

 

**+1**  
Finally, the long, miserable job is wrapping up, which is a bloody godsend. Arthur's been in a mood the entire time and Eames, though he tries, isn't much better. Eames has learned that it's, apparently, a very awkward situation to share a room with someone you fuck, but aren't in a relationship with if neither are in the mood for seduction. After a few snappish comments from both sides after the comfortable first night, both tucked in to lick their wounds and stopped trying.

It's the last night of their stay and Arthur is off whoknowswhere.

Eames is fucked if he cares.

It's not like he's going to wait around for Arthur like a pining idiot, so when he can't ignore the itch to move any longer, he finds himself packing his travel bag with the sparse wardrobe and other supplies he brought. He's already swept the living area for any hiding ties (one was under the bed, another tucked underneath the Bible in a bedside drawer), meaning that after he clears out the loo, he's ready to be off. The flight out to Mombasa—he needs to at least touch base before rambling again—leaves tomorrow morning bright and early.

He doesn't really mean to slam the bag down at the side of the bed quite as forcibly as he does, but it's permissible. He's tired, alone, and far too sober.

"What did it ever do to you?"

Eames tenses, but doesn't let the surprise show visibly. "Arthur, didn't hear you come in."

"The door wasn't shut all the way." Arthur's folded himself along the, now shut, door with his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze is the coldly calculating one he uses when trying to size up a mark's security.

"Ah. That would explain it," Eames nudges the bag away with a foot.

"Were you leaving tonight?"

Eames tries to keep his tone light, "Hadn't decided yet, actually. Early flight and all, might be for the best."

Arthur tilts his head in acknowledgement, "Don't let me stop you."

Why is it that this man makes him feel like he's been properly scolded for something he well deserved it for? Nevermind  _what_  for, because he can't ever seem to piece it together with Arthur. His voice is a shade more petulant than he'd like when he answers, "I didn't know if I should expect you back."

"It was a messy job. I did say I had to tie up a few loose ends."

"So you did."

"What's this really about, Eames?"

He wants to answer  _'I don't fucking know, Arthur. How should I?'_ , but what comes out is a grunt and a shrug.

Fondness creeps in alongside Arthur's obvious annoyance. "Come here, Eames."

"Hmm, back to being bossy, I see."

"Just do it."

And Eames does. He sulks about it and hates himself for the ridiculousness even as he realizes what he's doing. His posture is the dead giveaway, but he can't seem to help himself. Like a bloody unruly teenager, he's stalking forward with hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders slumped.

_Christsake._

Once he's in front of Arthur, he stops. They're eye-to-eye and neither flinching back—another of Arthur's more formidable qualities.

"Eames." But Arthur doesn't say anything more, placing a steady palm along his cheek. "Maybe I'm not getting this right. I don't know. I'm not any better at this stuff than you are— _obviously_ —" and Eames can't help but think that little jab was a little uncalled for, "but if you're angry about me being out or leaving or  _whatever_  then tell me. I can't read people like you do. I admire the way you look at a person, the way you can look at me, and know what drives them. But I can't, so you have to fucking talk to me, okay."

The words are impossible to drive from their blockade in his throat, nor could he formulate their meaning if he tried. So rather than talking, he grabs Arthur's hand from his face by the fingers and presses his lips to the open palm without looking away from Arthur's eyes. Eames doesn't really know how to deal with any of this either, doesn't really understand what's going on at all, but knows that in this second he needs to try—whatever that may mean. What he does know is that he wants Arthur  _now_  and hopes that's enough.

"Okay," Arthur's acquiescence is all it takes. Maybe, Eames wonders, that's always how it's been with them. Always a strange dance of unnecessary permission and too little common understanding patched over with too much sex. But if that's what this is, then he'll still take it, because he remembers whispering into Arthur's ear saying 'I like having you any way you'll let me' and meant it more than was wise. Still means it.

The crush of their mouths is a mutual meeting, but Eames won't stand for anything less than Arthur fully naked immediately. Keeping their mouths together as much as possible he strips Arthur and presses him against the hotel wall like that—Arthur's completely bare and Eames only shed of his belt and shoes. His chest feels like there's a ball wedged inside, pulsing against him outwards, and only touching Arthur can relieve it. He does, pushing the fine bones of him into the bright wallpaper.

"Fuck, I need you, you bastard," he's murmuring mindlessly into the pale skin of Arthur's bare neck. Eames' mouth and body are no longer responding to his input, but are on some pre-set rails and careening to some unknown destination. "Jesus, do I." He insinuates a knee between Arthur's legs, shoving them to part even before Arthur can enthusiastically catch up to his pace. As soon as Arthur's spread out, Eames hitches him up with both hands so he's half-seated across a thigh. Arthur yields all control and instead of trying to force a response, he nuzzles and sucks along Eames' jaw, throat, collarbone.

"Eames, please," he says.

Arthur, commanding Arthur, has never asked him for anything. It breaks any semblance of remaining control or coherent thought. Eames yanks him up further so Arthur can wrap his legs around Eames' midsection with ankles interlocked at his back to keep him from falling. At this point, Eames only cares about getting the right friction, but with his trousers still on it's difficult. Similarly frustrated, Arthur mutters a curse before working at the button of Eames' slacks pinned by his own legs, curses again, and opts for undoing and pushing back Eames' shirt instead. Desperately, he manhandles it away so that the sleeves pull tight around Eames' shoulders and arms.

This must be regression.

Even so, the friction is better, Arthur's cock against his stomach, helped along by his own hand, and Eames against Arthur's ass in an inelegant grind.

"Yes, please, fucking please, Eames," Arthur babbles almost incomprehensibly. Babble, Eames knows, is by definition without meaning, but he hears it for what he wants it to be:  _Please_ , he says, like Arthur needs as much as Eames does.

"God. Fuck." Arthur comes messily, semen catching along Eames' chest and dripping onto his stomach onto his trousers. He grinds all the harder at Arthur's ass angrily, his own orgasm eluding him.

"Eames, come on," Arthur clings on with arms and legs still, despite looking utterly wrecked. He kisses Eames wetly.

And finally, finally, he's there. Eames tries to keep Arthur, stuck between him and the wall, in mind, but can't help but slump forward as he comes. Arthur is probably crushed and his trousers are surely ruined.

_Eames_  feels ruined.

"Oh, darling," he says when he can and lets Arthur down, "what have you done to me?"

Arthur smiles, maybe a little sad and maybe a little smug, "Nothing you haven't done to me, Eames."

"If only that were true."

Arthur looks at him, again with that calculating look, but tempered with a frowning consideration. "Eames, stay here tonight."

"Always ordering me about, aren't you?"

"It seems to be the only thing that works with you."

"Maybe so. Okay, Arthur, my marching orders, what are they? Give me the command and I shall obey," Eames is playing it mildly or trying to, but suspects Arthur, for all his professed inability at reading people, hears the seriousness underlying the words. An undertow of truth threatening to suck Eames in.

"Undress and come to bed. The rest we can sort out later."

Eames' world is sinking in on itself, completely wrapped up in this one man as he is, and all Arthur has to offer is 'come to bed'? Christ, then they're both lost without maps. Blind leading the blind or whatnot.

Arthur must see him thinking, bloody lying  _perceptive_  bastard, because he presses a thumb against Eames' lower lip to stop any protests. "Bed, sleep, then we wake up together. Breakfast. No early flight."

"Sounds an awful lot like a distinct lack of a plan, Arthur. You're turning spontaneous on me, are you?" His lips, sensitive post-orgasm, brush along Arthur's thumb unintentionally with each word.

"No, but I—fuck. I want you here. And if someone has to fucking man up and say it, fine, I'll do it," Arthur grabs his hand back, running it through hair in frustration. His eyes shift from aggravation to decisiveness. He presses his palm firmly against Eames' chest in a slow, hard gesture—starkly different from the gentle thumb against his mouth, "You're not required to do a thing, Eames. You never have been, because even if you call me 'bossy,' I've never asked a thing from you that you didn't want to give. But if you can only give it if I ask—" He presses his palm down more firmly for emphasis, "You said once that you wanted me any way. Well, I want you this way. For now, stay with me. That's all I want. Okay?"

That knot is back in Eames' chest, makes his speech cracked and vulnerable when he'd prefer to be appear nonchalant. He says in that damning, broken voice, "Yeah, Arthur. Okay."


End file.
